One Hundred Days of Hypergraphia
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: Reflekshun's challenge; a mish mash of different authors receive one word a day for 100 days from the other participating authors. I am one of this mish mash. Rated T for safety.
1. Chaotic

_**A/N Okay so this… well this just **_**is **_**what it is, and if you don't get it, don't worry. I'm not even sure **_**I'll **_**get it when I wake up tomorrow morning and reread it. Hopefully there will be more substantial, plot based responses in the future!**_

Chaotic

It amazes me how he turns this world of seeming chaos, into nothing more than a spider-web, with each strand a different person. He can see this person, this strand, and know instantly almost everything about them.

I have written that he is cold and scientific; but how cold can a man be who spends such a large portion of his life in so close a study of warm, human life?

Life is not a simple case of black and white, right and wrong however. Life is chaotic, no matter how we try to make it otherwise. Though he might have learnt the patterns of life, the ways of different people, that does not mean he understands them.

His cold, scientific ways, are what enable him to think of his cases as a game. And if he did not do that, he would have succumbed to insanity a long time ago.

The chaos of human nature can dishearten even the best of us.


	2. Marionette

_**A/N Wow… Alright so this is… **_**interesting. **_**To say the least! There's mention of murder and blood, and it's a tad creepy, but I think the humour kind of balances it out. Point out any mistakes please!**_

Marionette

As many have no doubt read in my previous accounts, Sherlock Holmes is very picky when it comes to choosing which cases he will look into. He prefers them to be out of the ordinary, fascinating… _singular. _It is with these cases and these cases alone, that he finds himself happiest. After all it is only the most singular of problems which stand a chance of challenging his great brain.

However, the most singular event which I have ever experienced was not a case in itself, but rather the conclusion of a case. I would even go so far as to declare it as the most singular event for Holmes ever to have experienced – if, that is, he had retained any memory of it. I am leaping ahead of myself however; I will go back to the beginning.

The case Holmes and I had been investigating was an intriguing one in itself; a series of murders, each clearly the work of a serial killer who had one signature mark; each of the victims had been choked to death with a long length of string. It had taken Holmes little time at all to deduce and discover where these strings had come from; a marionette. From there it was a few short steps to finding the manufacturer, followed by a list of anyone who had purchased a marionette such as this long enough ago to have performed the murders. As it turned out, there were very few, and narrowing it down with what Holmes had discovered about the murderer from footprints and other clues at one particular scene of death, we were able to track said murderer down. We sent a telegram to Lestrade in explanation, before hurrying to the address of our culprit; a Mr Hans Geppetto.

To describe Mr Geppetto's home as unclean would be a gross understatement. His home was downright _filthy. _Fallen into disrepair what must have been a long, long time ago, we did not have any great difficulty in entering the place; the door lay in rotten splinters of wood, some on the floor and some still clinging to the rusted hinges.

As we stepped over the dingy threshold, I was struck by a noise, audible from somewhere in the depths of the house. I stopped, and at Holmes's inquisitive glance I raised a hand for silence. We both listened, and were eventually able to discern the quiet noises as a hushed, but frantic, whispering.

"… of course I trust you…but I do not feel that I- I cannot continue! And you promised… you _promised…_"

Holmes and I shared a glance before pressing on down the dark and creaky hallway, revolvers raised. On entering the next room however, I realised that we would not need them.

A man, Mr Geppetto, lay wheezing on the floor. Even from this distance I could see he was not long for this world; spots of blood covered the rotting floorboards around him, as well as – I shuddered – a wooden puppet, strings missing and already stained dark brown. The man was still muttering to himself.

"…. You…. You cannot mean- but that… that is not fair! You _promised...!_" Suddenly he broke off and his eyes turned to Holmes, filled with so much rage that I took an instinctive step between them both. Mr Geppetto did not notice, merely continued with his whispered ramblings, "Not him… please, I can… I _will…_"

Holmes's own strident tones carried over Geppetto's low ones, "Well Watson, as a medical man, what do you suggest as the best course of-" he broke off with a gasp. With one last, wheezing breath, the muttering madman keeled over, eyes glassy. For a short while all we could do was stare.

Holmes cleared his throat. When he next spoke, his voice was a trifle unsteady, "Well I suppose all that remains is to... I say, what's that?"

Utterly repulsed, yet unable to stop staring, I watched as from the dead man's greasy hair, their emerged an enormous cricket.

"What on earth..?" I murmured.

Holmes was staring down at the insect, eyes wider than I had ever seen them before. "It- it's… beautiful. So, so beautiful…." He took a step toward the creature. "Can you hear it Watson?"

I looked from Holmes to the cricket and back again, convinced there were some sort of practical joke at play. "Beautiful? Surely you're joking Holmes! It- it's utterly disgust-!"

"Shh!" he hissed, turning back briefly to spare me a hateful glare. "I must listen…."

"Listen… to what?"

"My conscience, of course," he replied, a wide, unnatural smile on his thin lips. He was still staring intently at the creature on the ground. "What's that? Oh but of course… of course I need not listen to _him…_" he spared me another hate-filled glance. "… no, listen only to you…. Take care of him? Yes… yes that makes perfect sense." His eyes swivelled slowly to the gruesome marionette in the corner. "I… I shall have a _real _friend soon…" he looked at the gun in his hand, then up at me.

"Holmes?"

"I am sorry Watson… but it is for the greater good…" He raised the gun and I felt a chill run down my spine. I did not wish to die, but neither did I wish to cause unnecessary harm to my friend. There seemed to be but one course of action. I lifted my foot.

"Watson, no-!"

_Squelch._

For a short while, neither one of us spoke. It was Holmes, still staring at where the cricket had once been, who broke the silence first,

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"May I enquire as to… why I am pointing a gun at your foot?"


	3. Opera

_**A/N Sorry if you don't understand this. It's sort of important to have seen **_**The Phantom of the Opera. ****_Anyway, enjoy!_**

Opera

"Holmes... I was cleaning up the living room and I found this."  
>"Ah yes."<br>"May I ask when it was you acquired such an item? I can think of no use you have for half of a mask, and it is certainly not mine. Did you frequent many masquerade balls during your hiatus?"

"I had the mask made in France."

"... and?"

"And what?"

"WHY did you have it made?"

"... I enjoyed wearing it. To the opera."

"The opera? But why-?"

"Ah Watson, I can hear a client ringing upon the bell. Your questions will have to wait!"

"But I-"

"Send them up Mrs Hudson!"


	4. Reflection

_**A/N Yes! Finally a chapter which everyone should understand! Except people who don't know about Sherlock Holmes… but why would **_**you **_**be reading this?**_

_**Please enjoy, and tell me your thoughts.**_

Reflection

For as long as he has known of it, Watson has disapproved of my cocaine habit, and has not been afraid to make his opinions on this heard. My own opinion has always been that I am not, as he believes, dependant on the drug; I merely enjoy its effects during times of boredom.

My opinion, however, was forced to alter drastically during my long hiatus. It was only as I began to experience the cramps, chills and unquenchable cravings that I was forced to acknowledge how very wrong I was.

I had no choice but to push through these symptoms of withdrawal. I had no money to fund my habit and was too ashamed to ask Mycroft, who would deduce where I was pilfering it away as surely as I could.

Indeed, shame ruled much of my life for those next three years. There were some days I could not bear even to look in the mirror, for fear of the desperate, sunken reflection which I knew would look back, showing what the cocaine had done. What I had let it do.

Time passed, as it always does and slowly my cravings began to disappear. By the time I made my return to London, the drug's grasp on me had disappeared completely.

Watson never commented on the disappearance of cocaine from my life, a fact for which I was immensely grateful – but not surprised by. Watson never cared about being proven right or wrong; he cared only for my well-being.

I can see that clearly now. As clearly as I see my reflection in a mirror.


	5. Frozen

_**A/N Criticism and comments always welcomed! **_

Frozen

I have commented before that the country, though a seemingly charming place, can also be rather a solitary one. I was never reminded of this more than in my years of retirement, which I spent for the most part in my little cottage in Sussex and where, in the winter, temperatures would drop, frost would gather and I became accustomed to hearing the panes of my windows rattling in their frames. On these occasions I did not dare to venture out to the nearby village, for fear of a nasty slip on the frost, and straight over the seaside cliffs. I was, effectively, snowed in.

I was surprised therefore when, during one particularly cold winter, instead of the regular rapping of the window panes in the wind, I heard instead a rapping against the door. Puzzled, I went to answer it.

"H- hello Holmes."

"Watson!"I cried at the sight of my friend, shivering on the doorstep. "You look half frozen! Come in, quickly."

He nodded gratefully and stepped inside, shutting the door quickly behind him. "I am terribly sorry to intrude like this Holmes."

"It's quite alright," I replied, taking his damp coat and hanging it up. We headed to the living room. "I must ask though – what problem is it you wish me to look into?"

"Problem?" he echoed, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "No problem Holmes."

"Watson you are not prone to making unannounced visits, unless the situation truly calls for it. And the only situation I can think of which would entail you calling unannounced on me is that you have some sort of case or other which you wish me to look into," I explained. "So, what is this case? It must be important indeed for you to call me out of retirement." This last sentence had been spoken mostly in jest, though I thought I sensed a certain change in his expression. It was not guilt exactly but perhaps… embarrassment?

"I am afraid I have no problem for you to look into for me Holmes," he said.

"Oh really?" this time it was my turn to be bewildered. "But in that case; why _are _you here?"

He smiled sheepishly. "When this cold snap hit I tried to telegram, but received no reply…. I was worried. "


	6. Short sighted

Short-sighted

"Holmes… Explain to me again how it is that we ended up lost in a dark, dank cave?"

"Certainly Watson! I will tell the tale again and go over each point very clearl- wait! Listen!"

"… what is it?"

"Can you hear that screeching noise Watson?"

"Yes, but… what is it?"

"If I am not mistaken my dear fellow, we are in the company of some type of bat. And it may just be our way out of here!"

"And… how is that, Holmes?"

"Well as you may know bats have a terrible sense of sight, but an excellent sense of hearing. They use their screeching cries to find their way around, something which we shall try to put to our good use."

"Holmes…"

"What? You do not think it a good plan?"

"Yes, but… how do you know so much of bats? Surely it does not coincide with detection in any way?"

"Oh you would be surprised Watson. You see a long time ago I encountered a case, which offered several of the most singular occurrences, one of which-"

"Holmes. We should er… probably try and find a way _out _of this place before you rambl- er tell me about your past case."

"Very well Watson… Ah! I hear movement! Let us follow the creature out of this place!"

-Half an hour later-

"Look Watson! An opening! You see now, I was right."

"I never doubted you for a moment Ho- oh. Oh…"

"What? What is it? We are clearly not out of the caves, but in that case where has the bat led us to?"

"I… I believe that it has led us to another, larger cave-"

"Yes Watson, I can _see _that!"

"Another, larger cave… full of more bats."

"… Dammit! Stupid bat…"

"Of course, blame the bat…"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, nothing Holmes…."


	7. Revenge

Revenge

Or

Four Ways in Which to Exact Revenge upon Sherlock Holmes

(If you are Watson) Guilt trip him by acting sad about things that occurred during his Hiatus. If you have difficulty lying, just glance at the picture of Reichenbach on the mantelpiece and sigh, sadly.

(If you are Mrs Hudson) Mix laxatives in with his coffee. But remember not to mix it into his food because chances are, he won't eat it.

(If you are Inspector Lestrade) Kick him in the bottom whilst he bends over to examine some evidence. If you feel this is too obvious, trip him over when he walks purposefully somewhere. Both have the same result; he will land on his face.

And last but by no means least…

(If you are Mycroft) Sit on him.


	8. Headstrong

Headstrong

It was the end of another long and exciting case. Holmes sighed.

"I suppose we ought to go and give our statements to those fools at Scotland Yard," he grumbled, standing to pull on his coat.

Knowing of his opinions on the inspectors, I made no comment on his insult, instead saying, "I suppose they shall busy tying up all of the paperwork."

He turned to me, a curious smile twisting on his lips, and unless I was mistaken, a glint in his eye. "Of course… you have not seen Scotland Yard at the conclusion of a case, have you?"

"No..." I replied, "I cannot think it will be far different from what it is like during a case though?"

Holmes turned around, but I could see that he was smiling, "Well… you shall see."

-/-/-/-/-

"Who are you betting on?"

"Well I- I don't-"

"Lestrade or Gregson; which one's the strongest head?"

At this strange question, from a constable who appeared to be caught in the throes of indecision, I could only stare. Luckily, Holmes interjected on my behalf.

"Lestrade. He's small, but compact."

The constable nodded gratefully, and returned to the crowd lining the sides of the large corridor we now stood in. They all seemed to be discussing Lestrade and Gregson, but I was still confused as to why.

"Holmes," I said, "what on _earth _is going on?"

"It is a… sport, they indulge in. At the successful end to a case. Watch and it will all be made clear Watson."

I nodded and watched the corridor. At that precise moment, Lestrade emerged from one end, and Gregson from another. Or at least, I thought that was who it was; both men wore buckets on their heads.

The constable from earlier hurriedly finished his discussion with some kind of bookie, and came to the centre of the corridor.

"Alright! You all know the rules," he bellowed. "The aim of the game is to be last man standing. Both men shall run at each other, head butt and the one to fall first will be the one with the weakest head. On your marks…. Get set… GO!"

On the word go, both men ran at each other, heads (and therefore buckets) lowered. As a medical man I winced; this was going to be painful…

_CLANG! _Sure enough, on impact, both men staggered back, clutching their heads. For a while they both tottered about, but just as Holmes had predicted, it was Gregson who fell first.

"And the winner is… INSPECTOR LESTRADE!"

The crowd cheered and, bewildered, I watched as money exchanged hands. Holmes smiled at my expression.

"Why… _why _do they do this?" I asked, completely at a loss.

Holmes shrugged. "I've no idea. Personally I believe there is very little between how headstrong each of them is."


	9. Unstable

_**A/N Thank you reviewers! Also thanks to anony9, a reviewer I can't PM, but whose reviews always brighten up my day!**_

Unstable

"Honestly Sherlock! It's high time that you learnt how to ride a bike; you are 22 years old, for goodness' sake!"

"But Mycroft…"

"Don't whine Sherlock."

"But Mycroft, I don't _want _to ride a bike!"

"Nonsense. You are simply scared of falling over – that is natural. But I promise you, that by the end of today you _will _know how to ride a bike!"

**2 WEEKS LATER**

"Mycroft! Mycroft I'm doing it! Look Mycroft!"

"Yes Sherlock, I can see… well done. Now… let me have a rest. You just… cycle around for a bit and I'll jus- WATCH OUT FOR THAT HILL!"

"What hi-? AHHHHHHHHHH!"

"No Sherlock! No you're headed straight for the-"

_SPLASH!_

"-pond."

"MYCROOOFT!"

"I'm… coming… just gotta… WOAH!"

_Splash!_

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Where are you Sherlock? Oh!"

_Squelch._

"There you are!"

"Ow… you landed _on _me..!"

"Oh, stop complaining."

**15 YEARS LATER**

"And thus you see Watson that is why bicycles are my second greatest fear, and why I could not possibly use one to chase after the perpetrator."

"Of course Holmes I perfectly under- wait; _second _greatest fear? But then… if bicycles are not your greatest fear, what is?"

"… Ponds."


	10. Colleague

Colleague

"Friend" before "colleague";

It's the perfect example

Of heart before mind.


	11. Translation

Translation

I have never cared much for Watson's recordings of our cases together; I would prefer them to be more scientific, less romanticised than how he writes them. It is clear though that the rest of the general public does not share this view of mine. Indeed his success as an author has proved very useful bringing many cases to my doorstep.

However even I was surprised when, during my three years on the continent, I observed a group of young Spanish boys gesturing excitedly to a page from a magazine which, in Spanish, read: "The Adventure of the Naval Treaty".


	12. Backstage

Backstage

**Watson's POV:**

"Quickly Watson! He's running toward the theatre!"

"Holmes! You don't think he is planning on… _acting _tonight?"

Holmes let out a laugh as we sprinted through the doors which led into the backstage area. "No indeed Watson. He was clearly not expecting to be pursued. Now," he paused, and we both looked around for the man we were after, a famous actor, but soon to be infamous criminal, "where _is _he?"

We were now in what appeared to be some kind of costume room, judging by the frantic actors rushing to and fro with various items of clothing flung over their arms. Beside me Holmes began to turn and pace, muttering to himself, clearly attempting to deduce where the perpetrator was hiding.

"Oi, John!" I turned at the sound of my name, to the sight of a man holding a script and looking thoroughly bad tempered. "Yer on."

"O- on?" I stammered. I did not wish to be kicked out; as we needed to catch the criminal, but neither did I wish to ruin a performance with my presence. "No, no, you see I'm not er… I'm not-"

"Yer name's John, innit?"

"Well… yes, but-"

"Then take this," he thrust a tea towel (perhaps some kind of prop?) into my arms, "and _get. On. There. _God knows it's going badly enough as it is, without you turning up on stage."

"But- but I-"

"I said, _hurry up!_"

"I- I… well… alright."

**Holmes's POV:**

I was so engrossed in considering my opponent's next move, that it took me a few moments to observe the disappearance of Watson from my side. I glanced around wildly, thinking perhaps that he had gone to look into a few of the other rooms for him. But no, that was not like Watson; he would have told me where he was going. But in that case, where _was _he?

My question was soon answered. As I listened, I was able to make out his distant voice, coming from the direction of – I strained my ears – the _stage?_

Unable to believe this, I followed someone who looked like he might be a stage manager, to where he worked behind the curtain. Peering cautiously out I was able to see that, sure enough, it was Watson up there. Acting. Without a script.

And the audience loved him.

I was stunned. Watson must be improvising, and yet I had never known him to possess so much comedic and indeed, dramatic, talent.

I filed this interesting new development in my brain attic for future use, then turned back to continue my search for the criminal.


	13. Spice

Spice

"Watson! Did you eat that red powder I left beside the microscope whilst I was gone?"

"Umm… you mean that mysterious red powder that looked an awful lot like curry spice?"

"Yes."

"Then no."

"No?"

"No, I ate the mysterious red powder beside your microscope that _was _curry spice. I think."

"Watson! That was a highly potent drug! Who knows what kind of side effects and-"

"Holmes shut up a moment. I am _trying _to track the progress of your horn's growth…"

"Horn..? Ah. Hallucinations."

"Pfft. Like you would know what a hallucination even _was_."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because… because unicorns shouldn't even _talk! _Let alone know what a allucat- halluken- er…. Hey look! Hello Mr Leprechaun!"

"Mr Holmes? What precisely is wrong with Doctor Watson?"

"Er… nothing that he won't be clear of in a few hours."

"Whooosh! I'm a shooting star!"

"I hope."


	14. Scar

Scar

It was a rainy day and Holmes and I sat in our living room at Baker Street. There had been an absence of cases recently and due to this lack of activity, I thought it an appropriate time to ask,

"Holmes, wherever did you get that scar behind your ear?"

Holmes smiled ruefully and rubbed at the thin, pink line. It was barely noticeable, but I had been wondering about it for some time.

"Ah yes," he said. "Well Watson, it was a few years before I met you and… I went out to a tavern with a few of the inspectors, the regular lot; Gregson, Lestrade and so on, as well as a few others… and…"

"And?" I prompted eagerly.

"And I hadn't realised that they would be _angry _drunks…"


	15. Fire

Fire

"Don't you worry Mr Holmes – we'll get our man."

I looked down at the rat faced detective, exasperated. "But you must use _precision _and _accuracy _Lestrade, when solving a murder case."

He smiled, a little patronisingly, "Yes Mr Holmes, but some of us do have jobs you know, and can't spend all our time wandering around and comparing bits of fingerprints. We do have a murderer to catch after all."

I let out a frustrated sigh. "_Yes,_ but according to what you deduced from the footprints a few minutes ago the man we are searching for is approximately 6 ft tall, was wearing soft soled shoes, and has a slight limp."

"Yes! And that fits the description of the brother just right! We shall arrest him immediately."

"No, Lestrade! It is true that the description fits this man, but it also fits several others-"

"None of whom are currently suspects in a murder case Mr Holmes," he cut across me.

"Perhaps not, but I still think you should exercise a little _patience _before you arrest anyone and-"

"No, no Mr Holmes," he gave another infuriating smile. "We do things fast here. Fight fire with fire and all of that."

"But that's the point!" I hissed, my own patience wearing thin. "You do not fight fire with fire! You fight fire with _water!_"

Lestrade had already gone to make the arrest. I let out another sigh. I would have to send the man a telegram informing him that those had been _Watson's _footprints he had seen at the crime scene. They had been left there when we both stood beside the body a few minutes ago.


	16. Scrambled

Scrambled

"Holmes! Holmes – are you alright?"

My friend's eyelids fluttered briefly, before closing again in a wince. "W'son?"

"Yes Holmes, it's me," I ran my hands across him, checking for injuries other than the large bruise on his temple. Satisfied there were none, I asked, "Do you remember what happened?"

He peered blearily up from where he was propped against a wall. No doubt he had concussion. His eyes gained a focus on me and he muttered, "Scrambled."

"Scrambled? What do you mean Holmes?"

"Head," he gestured at his own to make it clear, "Scrambled."

I stared blankly at him and could see he was frustrated at my incomprehension.

"Wall, head… scrambled. My."

"The wall… scrambled your head?"I rearranged.

He nodded fiercely. "Mm!"

"So what you mean is that you… ran into a wall?"

"… ran?"

I shook my head at his confusion and looked at the wall in question. There was indeed a slight dent. "Goodness Holmes… you must have a harder head than even I had suspected."

"Hard..? No! Scrambled…"

Confusion was such a rare expression to see upon his face that I could not prevent the chuckle which escaped me.

"Have no fear Holmes. We shall go back to Baker Street, where we can set to work unscrambling your head."


	17. Devotion

Devotion

"Watson."

He glanced up from his desk at the mention of his name. "Yes Holmes?"

"Who is it you have been writing to twice a week for the past month?"

He was so used to my methods by now that he merely turned back to his letter with a smile. "No one you would be interested in Holmes."

"A young lady friend, perhaps?" I enquired teasingly.

To my surprise, however, he replied, "Something like that."

I sat up a little straighter at that. A love interest? It was not so unbelievable an occurrence... it had been over three years since Mrs Watson's death... but he most certainly hadn't been acting the lovelorn fool he had when he first started courting _her._

Watson had noticed my sudden, calculating silence. He grinned, before asking innocently, "Yes, Holmes?"

"I... was just wondering... whether your correspondent would be anyone I have met," I answered carefully. "A young lady I might have assisted in a case?"

"No Holmes, you haven't met her. As a matter of fact, neither have I." I raised an eyebrow and his smile grew wider. "A young lady who reads my stories Holmes."

"Oh," I eyed the letter with a new-found distaste. "You were right. No one I would be interested in."

He snorted and wrote another sentence. Just a few words in though, he paused. "You know Holmes..." he looked up, the glimmer of an idea sparkling in his eyes. What idea, I dreaded to think. "This _particular _young lady is a _particularly _devoted reader."

"Yeeess..?"

"And I _think _that she might be _particularly _pleased if she could visit 221B."

"Watson it is entirely up to you who you entertain," I said. "So long as you give me due warning so that I might vacate the living room."

He sighed. "No Holmes. What I think this young lady would really like would be if she visited 221B _when _you were there."

"Very amusing Watson," I said with a laugh. "Honestly though, when-?"

"Honestly Holmes."

I stared at my friend. He was still smiling.

-/-/-/-

"Watson I have no idea how you convinced me into this," I grumbled, tugging irritably at my cufflinks. "What do you expect the two of us to talk about anyway? You know my opinions on women..."

"Just act civil Holmes," Watson said, busy arranging the living room into some semblance of vague tidiness, "and I'm sure you'll be fine."

"But Watson-"

The ringing of the front door bell interrupted me, and Watson straightened with a smile. "Send her up, Mrs Hudson!"

"Watson..." I said uneasily. "What exactly is this woman-? Oh." The living room door had opened, revealing our guest.

"Sherlock Holmes, may I introduce to Miss Elizabeth Champion. Elizabeth," he spoke now to the young – the _very _young – lady in our doorway, "This is Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Hello, Mr Holmes," the girl, who could not have been older than nine, said shyly. She stuck out a small hand. "It's very nice to meet you."

I looked from Watson to her and then back to Watson again, a little dazed. I could tell from his pursed lips that he was suppressing a grin. After giving a glare which clearly said _We'll discuss this later _I turned back to Miss Elizabeth Champion and shook her hand. "Hello Elizabeth."

After these pleasantries had been exchanged, Elizabeth directed her attention to the, still shamefully untidy, living room. She seemed not to care too much about the mess though, her eyes darting to the jack knife in the mantelpiece and the V.R shot into the wall. A true devotee of Watson's romanticised tales then.

Never having had much of a talent with children, I glanced desperately to Watson for assistance.

"I'll go and see if Mrs Hudson can bring up some tea," he said, and left. I narrowed my eyes at his retreating back.

"It's just like-" Elizabeth began, but stopped suddenly, her cheeks turning red. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"What for?" I asked, the apology seeming to have been directed at me.

"I... I know you don't like Doctor Watson's stories... but I think-" she stopped again, turning, if possible, even redder.

"Yes?" I prompted.

"I think they're brilliant."

"Yes... well... Watson's stories aren't _my _cup of tea but I suppose to the general population they must hold some appeal."

"I've read all of them," she said fervently. "I really like-" She broke off again. An awkward silence began to fill the room and grasped around for some topic to discuss. Unable to find one more suitable, I realised that the best option might be to revert back to Watson's stories.

"You really like..?"

"Oh! I er... I really like reading about how you solve the cases it's... it's very clever..." she mumbled.

"... alright," I said. "And um... what else do you like about them?"

"I... I like trying to figure them out by myself," she said, growing braver now. "And... and reading about you and Doctor Watson, because- because you're real and... and I was very glad when I read in the papers that you'd come back."

"Well... thank you," I replied. I was, I admit, slightly touched by this last sentiment – to be missed by someone I had never met was strange indeed. "I was glad to come back."

"It must have been nice to see Doctor Watson again," Miss Champion observed, "I'd be very unhappy if I couldn't see my best friend for three years."

"Yes, well er... once you reach my age you find you don't really have "best friends" any more," I said. Elizabeth looked shocked.

"But surely Doctor Watson is your best friend?"

"Well he erm... he is certainly a trusted friend and colleague, but... as I said when you are my age it is not... really the same..." I trailed off awkwardly, the young girl in front of me still staring quizzically.

"I think Doctor Watson is your best friend," she said decisively. "He _must _be the friend that's known you for longest. And he came back to share rooms with you – if he didn't want to be your best friend, he wouldn't have bothered."

Unable to find a flaw in her childlike logic, I instead cleared my throat and said, "Well, anyway... Shall we go down to the kitchen and... fetch some tea?"

"Yes please."

And thus, side by side, we headed out the living room door. I pondered as we trod down the staircase how very wise children could be.


	18. Docks

Docks

"Where were you wounded?"

"Maiwand," I answer and the soldier next to me whistles. His lower leg is missing.  
>"Lucky man, to get out of there with your life," he says. I merely nod and we both go back to looking out over the railing of the ship. I can feel an ache growing in my injured limbs; England is drawing nearer.<br>"What about you?" I ask him after a few more moments of silence.  
>"Ahmed Khel," is his reply. "It was barely a graze, but then... it got infected."<br>Again I nod, this time in sympathy. I had seen many lose their limbs this way. More often than not amputation was the best choice when infection set in.  
>The man's tanned skin contrasts with his white hair - he has clearly been a soldier for a long time. "We shall be in England soon," he says suddenly. "It's strange but... after so long in a foreign land I don't think it will feel like home anymore." He looks up at me with old, sad eyes. I wonder if mine will look like that when I reach his age - perhaps they already do. "How about you? Do you have any family... a wife, waiting for you perhaps?"<br>"No," I say. The man was right - the outline of the shore is growing sharper against the overcast sky. "None."  
>Neither of us speak again.<br>Eventually, when the ship does come to dock I realise, with a pang of sadness, that the old man was correct.  
>This is not home.<p>

**A/N Ahmed Khel was another battle in the Second Anglo Afghan War. As far as I can tell it was thought just over a month before The Battle of Maiwand.**


	19. Choke

Choke

Mycroft Holmes was not a heartless man, and thus cared a great deal about his brother. He had, after all, grown up with the fellow, and certain feelings of attachment were bound to spawn during this time. So, of course, when Doctor Watson agreed to split rent with Sherlock, Mycroft was glad. When the relationship between the two men progressed from flatmates into friendship, he was even happier.

There were, however, other advantages to knowing Doctor Watson than just his brother's happiness. One day, the three of them - the Doctor, Sherlock and Mycroft - were dining together. Mycroft , indulging upon his third pie, suddenly began to turn very red, choking. Luckily Doctor Watson was able to dislodge the piece of pie before any serious harm could befall Mycroft, for which he was immensely gratefuly.

Sherlock was too.

**A/N Apologies for any weird formatting likely to show up in the future.**


	20. Traitor

Traitor

"*Sigh*"

"Whatever is wrong Watson?"

"It's just... Mary's been acting secretive for a while now... I think she might be seeing someone else..."

"And if she were... I suppose you would come back here to live - wouldn't you?"

"Well I might have to. Why do you sound so happy?"

"Because she IS having an affair! With me!"

"... what?"

"She is having an affair with me! Now, when will you start moving your things in?"

…

"Watson?"

…

"Watson?"

…

"Watson..?"


	21. Indestructible

Indestructible

"Watson! I've been conducting experiments-"

"So I was aware."

"-and one of them went wrong-"

"So I smelt."

"- and exploded!"

"So I heard."

"And I was completely unharmed! I think... I think I may be... _indestructible._"

"... What?"

"It's true!"

"Alright, I'll go fetch my revolver."

"Wait Watson don-!"

_**BANG!**_

___"_Well good thing _that _worked._"_

"Mmm... I don't know I think we should test it a bit more."

"Watson I-"

_**BANG!**_

__"-really-"

_**BANG!**_

__"-don't think-"

_**BANG!**_

__"-there's-"

_**BANG!**_

__"-any point in-"

_**BANG!**_

__"-doing this!"

_**BANG!**_

__"You see? Not a scratch... Although those bullets _did _ricochet off of me and into the wall. V.R... did you do that on purpose?"

"... yes..?"


	22. Torrent

Torrent

One day when Holmes was once again insulting my writing, I finally snapped.

"Well it's hardly as though you could write anything better!"

He stared at me, slightly shocked, but more amused than anything. "You think so?"

"Yes! Go ahead, write about one of _your _experiences and make it factual and entertaining all at once!"

"Certainly!" he cried, accepting my challenge and pulling out a pen. "I shall write about the cut I got last week... "

With that, he set to scribbling on the paper.

A few minutes later he handed it to me, a ridiculous grin on his face.

_Torrents of Emotion_

_By Sherlock Holmes_

_ I knocked into Mrs Hudson, and a torrent of tea spilt down from the teapot she carried, onto one of my monographs, soaking it through. Torrents of ink began sliding down the page and I reached out in an attempt to save it – but alas, it was not to be! My thumb was sliced clean open with the deceptively soggy page, and a torrent of blood spewed forth-_

"I'd say it was more of a _dribble _than a torrent," I commented lightly, attempting to conceal my smile. "It was only a paper cut after all."

"Keep reading!" he demanded, and I did so.

_-spewed forth from the skin, soaking the already soaked piece of writing. _

_ I looked at my landlady, torrents of anger rising within me, and yelled torrents of abuse. She broke down into torrents of tears and disappeared. _

_ I now felt torrents of guilt, and went to her, torrents of regret leaking into me. I expressed my torrents of apologies, and she accepted them._

_THE END_

"That was lovely... um... good use of language."

I was struggling not to break down into torrents of laughter.


	23. Pulse

Pulse

"Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson!" At Mrs Hudson's panicked cries I leapt from my armchair and bolted to Holmes's room, where she had just gone to wake him up.

"What is it?" I asked, entering the room. "What's wrong?"

Mrs Hudson pointed with a trembling hand at Holmes's bed. "He- he's got not pulse."

I felt myself go cold. I bent down and reached out for his neck, to feel for myself that he was-

"ARRRGGHHHHHH!" We both screamed as Holmes's head fell off of the bed.

"Wait- it's alright!" I reached out for the "head" and picked it up. I breathed a sigh of relief. "It's a pillow!"

"Oh... oh thank goodness!" Mrs Hudson gasped.


	24. Woollen

Woollen

**W **as made a scarf by Mycroft;

**O **nce made

**O **nce eaten.

**L **ike when we were children

**L **iving with our parents and he had

**E **aten them.

**N **om nom nom nom nom nom...


	25. Seasick

Seasick

Holmes had just concluded a case which had spanned over two weeks – over this time I had managed to coerce him into eating and drinking. The ritual I had not succeeded in convincing him to take part in, however, was washing.

"Please Holmes." I begged. "The case has finished now."

"Oh, what is the point?" he cried. "I feel free Watson! Free and invigorated! I do not have to conform to the everyday views which so many hold as gospel truth! I am free to do, and smell, as I please." He went to raise his arms in triumph.

"No!" I bellowed. He paused, and frowned at me. "I am sorry Holmes, but quite frankly – you stink. Now go and have a bath!"

"But I..." he floundered a moment for a reason he could give. Eventually he struck on one, "I get seasick?"

"I find that highly unlikely Holmes," I muttered, by now pushing him in the direction of the door.


	26. Helpless

Helpless

"Oh! Is that your baby in there?"

"Erm... hello," I whispered in response to the woman approaching me. She was grinning in the instinctive, and incredibly irritating, motherly manner that it seemed every woman I passed was prone to do when they saw the pram I was pushing. "Yes, the baby's just asleep at the moment and erm... I need to hurry."

I rushed past her, to the corner of the street and sighed in relief. "That was close. When exactly is your contact going to arrive Holmes?"

From the,what must have been suspiciously large and was most definitely suspiciously heavy, pram I was pushing, my friend, who lay in the blankets lining it, replied, "Shh Watson! You are supposed to be a father remember?"

"Yes, yes, yes, and you are supposed to be a helpless baby," I snapped back, though a tad lower, "What am I to do until this man arrives?"

"Just push me around the park a bit."

"But I-" I began in protest, but broke off with another sigh. "Fine. But I have to say this is by far my least favourite of your disguises- OW!" I rubbed my head where a rattle had just struck against it. "Alright I'm walking!"

"Oh and Watson," Holmes yawned. "If I am lulled to sleep at any point, just prod me awake _gently _there's a good fellow."

I rolled my eyes.


	27. Parcel

Parcel

"Ahh... Christmas morning! How glorious! I'll go downstairs to the living room – Holmes shall probably already be in there.

"Well that's odd... he's nowhere to be seen! And... no - he's not even in his room. I wanted him to see my present. I suppose he- Oh! A parcel under the tree... with my name on it! And it's- Oh!"

"That's right Watson! It's ME! Your best friend! Because friendship is worth more than any material goods, right?... _Right?_"


	28. Masquerade

Masquerade

"We've been invited to a masquerade ball Holmes!"  
>"I don't want to go. What's the point of a masquerade ball?"<br>"Mystery! Intrigue at who lies behind the mask."  
>"But... can't you just... tell?"<br>"Holmes, unlike you, the rest of the world cannot deduce a person's identity without having ever seen them."  
>"Perhaps not but could you not just tell from their hair and the rest of their body?"<br>"... I see your point, but we are still going."  
>"Damn!"<p> 


	29. Privilege

Privilege

"And now we have Doctor Watson, one of the men who knew Sherlock best, to speak a few words."

I gulped and stood up. I had been surprised at first to see so many people, but it made sense. There were several Scotland Yard inspectors, grateful clients, the Irregulars... I could see them all, dressed in black for the occasion. Even Wiggins and the rest of his ragtag gang had found something suitably sombre for the occasion.

I had, by this point, reached the front of the crowd. I took a deep breath and cleared my throat.

"There are many people who knew Sherlock Holmes," I began. "We have only to look in this crowd to see that. But... writing this speech, has made me think of who precisely he _was. _I realised as I was doing so, that there was much I didn't, and still don't, know about him. That many of us don't. For that air of mystery which surrounded him and his methods he is famous – or perhaps infamous," a few members of the crowd smiled.

"Truly though,"I continued. "I doubt that any of us could say we knew Holmes fully. Not even me. He was many things to many people: to clients he was an answer to their problems; to those inspectors at the Yard whom he helped he was something of an... advisor;" Lestrade raised an eyebrow at me, a smile pricking his lips. "And to me he was a colleague, more importantly a friend.

To be this, to such a wise and wonderful man, is what I consider the greatest privilege. And I am sure that each and every one of you, whether you were his acquaintance or friend, would consider it so too.

Thank you."


	30. Neighbour

Neighbour

"Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes there's been a murder!"

"I see. And what is it about this particular murder which gives you reason to think I would wish to investigate it?"

"Well the dead couple were – they were your neighbours, Mr Holmes! And they only died a few hours ago!"

"A few hours? But... I would have been at home then... practising my shoo- er... Precisely how did they die, Lestrade?"

"Well it's most peculiar Mr Holmes, right up your street. The wife was killed by 5 bullets, all to the head. And you won't believe it – the bullet holes were in the shape of a _V!_"

"... Mm hmm..."

"And her husband was killed in the same manner – except that the bullet holes in his head spelt out an _R! _What do you make of it Mr Holmes?"

"Er... well it certainly is a mystery. A mystery which... I cannot solve. And no one will solve. Ever."

"But Mr Holmes-!"

_"Ever."_


	31. Curtain

Curtain

"Hello Holmes," I greeted my friend as I walked through the door. He was sprawled out on the sofa, languid and without energy, no case currently occupying him. "Did you do anything today?"

"No. Toby did though," he replied. "Actually he did several somethings."

I let out a frustrated sigh. "I told you to take him back, so that those _wouldn't _happen! And for goodness' sake Holmes, you could at least let some light in here!" I chided him, and went to pull open the curtains. "Now where precisely did Toby urinate this time?"

"Several places," Holmes said, watching me. "Under my armchair, on the rug... But he did most of it on the curtains."

I dropped the material as if it had been a poisonous snake.


	32. Overconfident

Over-confident

I am not an arrogant man, despite what people might think. I have a perfect grasp on my abilities and limits. I do my best not to misjudge them for I am aware that, if I do, I put myself in a position I would rather not be in.

Just ask Mycroft. He will tell you for himself how I was once "unable to deduce that a churchyard at night would be full of freshly dug graves" and how I was forced to stay in one of them until the next morning, when I gave an early group of mourners a terrible fright.

After that I was careful that I was never over-confident.


	33. Threshold

Threshold

"Arrgghhh!"

"Watson? Whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing Holmes... just my war wound... Owwww! My leg!"

"... I thought you were wounded in the shoulder?"

"Er... w- well _obviously_, yes, but um... my pain threshold was so high that I had not noticed until... you mentioned it. Oww... my... shoulder..!"


	34. Luncheon

Luncheon

"Watson look outside the window and tell me what you see."

"Why Holmes - it's your brother!"

"Hmm. As I suspected."

"Oh? Why is he here?"

"Watson there are only two reasons my brother may have departed from his daily routine to visit us. The first: he has something of vital importance relating in some way to the well-being of England for me to look into."

"My God! And the second?"

"His regular kitchen staff are away. And it is lunchtime."


	35. Sanitarium

Sanitarium

I think of her often. Some days everything reminds me of her. London is a place which has become _too _familiar I think. Perhaps I should move, but something pulls me back. Memories, I suppose. It may be tempting to sever all connections to her by going somewhere far away, but I know, in my aching heart, that to run from grief is impossible.  
>I sent her to Switzerland, in my desperation. Cool mountain air to heal her ailing lungs. I knew then, as we said farewell, that it would be the last time I saw her. All I could think of were the memories that country held for me. Now not only the site of my friend's death, but also my wife's.<p>

I held her tight in our last embrace, carving every detail of her into my memory; the feel of her lips against mine, of her arms wrapped around me. I wished I could go with her, hold her hand as she slipped away. But I stayed in London, earned money to pay for the sanitarium, clinging to the hope that she _would _heal, that she would come back to me.

But I was wrong. I curse myself every day for sending her there and leaving her to a lonely death. Just as I curse myself for believing the fake telegram and leaving Holmes to his.

It is not just memories this city is full of - it is regrets.


	36. Ticket

Ticket

"Two tickets... to Berkshire... please!" gasped Holmes.

The man at the ticket booth looked down on us with something resembling disgust, curiosity and puzzlement all mixed into one. "Right... you know it leaves in six minutes though, right?"

"Well... yes. If you would be so good as to _hurry_ it would be much appreciated," Holmes replied, annoyed.

"Er, no that's not what I- erm, well there aren't any left."

"What?"

"There aren't any tickets left," the man said nervously, "but there's another train to

Berkshire in just three hours if you-"

"_Three _hours? We're on the trail of a dangerous criminal - we cannot afford to wait for

_three hours!_"

"Holmes," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "it's alright we shall just have to-"

"It is _not _"alright"!" he cried, shrugging it off in irritation. "What are we going to do?"

"Well," the man said, his face lighting up with an idea, "you could buy a bradshaw! That way you won't miss the next one!"

I honestly thought Holmes was going to punch him in the face.


	37. Telescope

Telescope

I have said many times to Watson that he ought not underrate his deductive abilities. I know he doesn't think them much compared to mine, but he fails to recognise that I have been honing my own my entire life and, as such, it is not surprising that mine are more progressed than his. He does not seem to realise that he has a far greater aptitude for deductive reasoning than the average man on the street (not to mention several Scotland Yard inspectors!).

After all, there are only a few people who have been told which day my birthday falls upon, and even fewer who could manage to discover it.

I was therefore surprised on the day in question, the first of my birthdays spent at 221B Baker Street, when I emerged from my bedroom to discover a small package lying on my desk. There was a note attached.

_Holmes,_

_Many happy returns of the day - I hope this will assist in filling in certain gaps in your education._

_Watson._

At first I wondered how it was he had known it was my birthday, but then my curiousity overcame me, and I wondered instead just what it was he had given me as a present. I pulled back the brown wrapping paper - and laughed.

It was a telescope, gleaming gold.

Watson may write of my ability to surprise and amaze him, but what he does not write of is his own ability to do the very same to me.


	38. Footmen

**A/N Warning! Innuendos ahead! (Just to say, Joshua and his brother ARE seriously misunderstanding the situation.)**

Footmen

_Another day, another boring social event... _Joshua sighed and wandered over to the refreshments table.

"_Meet me tonight."_

At these whispered words he glanced around, thinking that they may have been directed to him.

"Do you not think it a little risky, Ho-?"

"_Shh! _Keep your voice low, and _don't _mention my name! Remember, I am Harrison and you are Whitworth."

_Interesting, _Joshua thought to himself, and leaned around the bush which blocked the two men from sight. It was the two new footmen his father had hired. _Now why would they be using aliases..?_

"Alright _Harrison... _do you truly think meeting tonight is a good idea? We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

"I understand your concern Wa- Whitworth. But surely you can see it is a necessary risk?"

The shorter of the two men sighed. "I suppose so. I have to say I am thoroughly sick of all of this sneaking around. And thoroughly worn out with our nighttime excursions."

_Excursions..?!_ Joshua felt his eyebrows raise. _Surely not..?_

"It is our only choice. We do not wish to be found out as we were last time."

"You must admit it was rather humorous Ho- er, Harrison."

"Humorous now, perhaps, but we did also come rather close to being arrested! Now hurry up and serve some food.

Remember - we must act as though we have barely met."

"Yes, yes..."

Joshua watched as both men made their way through the sea of guests, each carrying a tray. As he stared after them, mouth agape, his brother Phillip approached.

"Oh, hello Josh," he greeted him, cheerfully helping himself to a piece of fruit from the table. "You look as though you've seen a ghost!"

"No, no I- er..." he trailed off, unsure of how to explain what he had just heard. "Phillip - you know the new footmen?"

"The tall one with the big nose?"

"Yes and the shorter with the moustache - over there," Joshua verified, gesturing to the two men. "You don't suppose they're... er..." he cleared his throat, "well, erm... you know..?"

Phillip looked blank. "I'm afraid I don't have the faintest clue what you're on about Joshua."

"Well you don't suppose they're, erm..." he rubbed his two index fingers together, raising his eyebrows significantly. "...Do you?"

Phillip burst into laughter. "Goodness no! What on earth's given you that idea?"

Joshua, by this point very red in the face, answered, "Oh just... something I overheard them saying. I suppose I must have... misunderstood..."

Phillip clapped his brother on the shoulder, still chuckling. "I'm sure you must have Josh, I hardly think- hold on a moment." He removed his hand from his brother's shoulder, now also staring at the two . "They've stopped serving food. Where are they going?"

Both brothers now squinted after the two footmen. "... the shed..? Perhaps they're going to get some wine..?"

"Yes... yes that must be it."

Minutes passed. Joshua cleared his throat. "It doesn't take that long to get wine."

"No. No it does not."


	39. Unmerited

Unmerited

"Telegram for you Mr Holmes."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"What is it, Holmes?"

"From my brother. I believe he did not achieve the merit he had been aiming for in his

piano exam."

"Oh?"

"Indeed. Take a look for yourself."

_Sherlock STOP Curse my thick, sausage like fingers STOP Mycroft FINAL STOP_

"Ah."


	40. Archives

Archives

_The following is extracted from the diaries of Dr John H Watson._

As I sat with my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, on the morning of

**THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPHS HAVE BEEN REMOVED DUE TO SENSITIVE CONTENT**

and thus ended the tale of the giant rat of Sumatra.


	41. Clerk

_**A/N I stopped this little response series thing because I reached this prompt and could think of nothing in response. So I wrote the first thing that popped into my head to dispel the writer's block. **_

Clerk

"That stain on your sleeve - shoe polish?"

"Yes! How did you-?"

"Hmmm, a shop clerk, working in a shoe shop. Simplicity itself."

The man in front of us smiled dimwittedly. "I shined my own shoes today!" He sounded inordinately proud. "My wife was dead in the room next door. I killed her."

Holmes frowned. "Hmm... this does make things infinitely more difficult..."

"How so?" I asked.

"I made a bet Lestrade that it was _not _this man who committed the murder..."

"Did you not suspect him?"

"I assumed he was too great a fool."

I smiled. "No one is _too _great a fool."


	42. Lamplighter

_**A/N Another random one to just shoot through these difficult prompts... I did consider having something in which Watson catches fire and is a lamp, but then thought it would be too complicated.**_

Lamplighter

"Blast Holmes! This street is too dark to see a damned thing, however will we chase our culprit?!"

"Wait Watson - LAMPLIGHTER, LAMPLIGHTER LIGHT ME A LAMP!"

"Alrigh' guvnor!"

"Goodness! Is that street urchin always there?"

"He just follows me around. I pay him when I need a lamp lighting."

"Clever."


	43. Reins

_**A/N At last! A serious response to one of these!**_

Reins

Having grown up in the country I have had some experience with riding. When we were offered the opportunity to make use of a grateful client's horses after the conclusion of a successful case, therefore, I did not hesitate to accept. Trains to London from this particular area of England were infrequent, and I hoped riding would give me something to do until tomorrow, when the next was due to arrive. Watson voiced his intention to join me, and I confess I was quite curious.

"You have experience in horse riding Watson?" I asked as the stablehands prepared our mounts.

"I did a great deal in my youth," he said. He smiled, perhaps at some memory I was not privy to. "I confess though, it has been some time."

I was tempted to ask him why that was, but the horses were ready and we led them

outside.

For the most part Watson showed great skill - greater than my own certainly. A couple of hours in, however, he began to flag. After leading his horse through a jump his shoulder suddenly stiffened followed by a convulsive tightening of his hand. He beheld the involuntary movement with a mixed look of horror and pain on his face and I decided to call it a day.

We returned to the stables and it was with no little sadness that he relinquished the reins to the stable boy, rubbing ruefully at his shoulder and no doubt cursing the bullet which had weakened it so.


	44. Ignite

Ignite

My fingers were numb, trembling with cold, and I swore as another of my matches broke against the box.

"An expletive learnt in your army days, eh Watson?"

I jumped and swore again, inciting a chuckle from my friend. "Holmes! How long have you been in here?"

I had to confess, his voice was a welcome sound. At least I was no longer alone in this place.

"Around an hour, I would estimate," he replied, his footsteps drawing closer in the darkness. "It is not surprising we have not bumped into one another before now - these crypts are rather large."

"Don't remind me," I muttered. "How are you?"

"Fine. The chloroform has quite worn off."

"Chloroform?"

"Yes. They drugged my tea." I could just about make out his tall, spare figure approaching me. "And yourself?"

"Well enough. Though I don't for the life of me understand what they hoped to achieve by shutting us both in here."

"I imagine that they are of the belief we shall starve to death," he replied, tone deceptively light. He reached out and wrested the matchbox from my icy fingers. "Or freeze, perhaps," he added. There was a hard edge to his voice now which had not been present before. "How long have you been here Watson?"

"I'm not entirely sure," I admitted. "They jumped me in the early evening, but I've little clue how much time has passed since then. I sustained a blow to the head and was barely conscious when they brought me down."

The candle flared into life at last. Holmes looked me over critically by its light.

"It seems they've done rather a number on you old chap," he murmured after a moment, eyes lingering on the areas of my face I knew to be bruised. "Come. Let's try and get out of this place."

"With pleasure," I replied, and side by side, we went to do just that.


	45. Thoughtful

_**A/N You know what I hate?! EXAMS. Just two more months or so...**_

Thoughtful

Holmes is often thoughtful. He thinks, muses, contemplates and knows that when Holmes's meditative silences turn dark and brooding, it is time to start checking the levels of morphine in his medical bag again. Watson himself is a man of action. He does not reflect overly on the past, but prefers to walk or treat patients or write in his journal.

So one morning, when Holmes enters the living room to see his flatmate curled up, miserable, in his armchair (a position he is far more used to occupying himself!), rubbing angrily at his shoulder and glaring daggers at the storm brewing outside, he doesn't quite know what to do. Dealing with "black moods" is Watson's forte, not his. He thinks for a few moments, then sees that action is what is needed here. Moving over to Watson's writing desk, he opens the drawer he knows holds a chess set, and pulls it out.

"Fancy a game?"


End file.
